


video

by light



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light/pseuds/light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has mixed feelings about finding pornography featuring none other than his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	video

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and because of J. I probably ought to feel vaguely ashamed that this exists.

It's not like Sherlock's ever hidden the fact that he's an omega. He's probably the most annoying dick that John's ever met--loud and imperious, expecting his demands to be met even as he deals out insults and unrealistic expectations before leaving with an obnoxious whirl of his coat. But there's no questioning the brief hints of omega scent John sometimes catches in the morning before Sherlock's wandered into the bathroom to shower, the undertones of his natural scent under the smell of the soap.

There's a whole range of scent neutralizers available on the market. Hell, John started pretending to be a beta the moment he'd stepped foot in London after being discharged so he knows all about the products. But Sherlock wears them sporadically if he wears them at all and only for a case.

John suspects that Sherlock does it only to unnerve or provoke other people. Sherlock's had alphas propositioning him on the streets (although propositioning might be too kind of a word) even in John's company. He's never held himself back as he deduced every detail of their sordid secrets and John's had to intervene more than once before the alpha broke Sherlock's nose or forcibly took what he was asking for.

Between the extremely volatile alpha temper and Sherlock's big mouth, John doesn't know how he's managed to survive unscathed for so long on his own. But every time after the fight is invariably over and after they've been kicked out of the restaurant or train station or pub (for a case), Sherlock watches him with assessing eyes as he tamps down on his own temper and John can't help but shiver a bit under his scrutiny. 

John knows that Sherlock knows he's an alpha even if they haven't talked about it. John sometimes swears that Sherlock provokes others just to watch John rise to his defense.

And it's not like they'd ever actually get together. That's the unnerving bit, according to Donovan who'd tried to warn him off Sherlock. An omega who wasn't the slightest bit interested in finding a mate or reproducing. It was weird, wasn't it? Sherlock suffered through heats with the aid of his own toys or didn't suffer them at all with the aid of his suppressants and he spoke of his body as a separate part of himself during these times. Sherlock clearly just wasn't interested in any of that.

Which is probably why John's frozen with his hands halfway down his pants, staring at his laptop screen and not even daring to breathe because it couldn't possibly be true but he's half certain that he recognizes the person on screen.

~

He'd looked up videos featuring heats for dark-haired omegas in a fit of self-indulgence that he completely hates himself for but--

This.

~

It must have been filmed in the 90's because the quality is grainy like it's been ripped from a video cassette at a low resolution. John sometimes likes it better this way--likes the mystery of the static and the blurriness at the edges. He's never been one to jerk off to all the glistening fluids and the extreme close ups of the videos provided in high definition--there's something more raw about videos half cast in darkness, something intimate and gripping.

It starts off with a shot of the omega's back. He's on all fours and he's shaking--probably on the second day of his heat if the mess of the sheets is anything to be believed. His hands fist into the sheets and his dark curls are matted to the nape of his neck with sweat. The camera is a bit shaky and the lighting is a little low but John can see the arch of the omega's back, the way he pants.

"Good boy," the person behind the camera says, slowly circling around. The omega's head is bowed, shoulders taut. The cameraman bends down and the camera zooms in on a ring extending out of the omega's arse. A hand comes into view and pulls lightly on it, and there's no mistaking the hitched gasp or the shiver that runs through the omega's spine.

"Stuffed full, aren't you?" the cameraman asks, tugging again. A low whine escapes the omega. "You want something else, don't you?"

A full-bodied shudder. His thighs spread even farther in invitation. The cameraman laughs. "You'll get what you want soon enough.

"Please."

John freezes.

He would know that voice anywhere. It follows him everywhere in his waking hours and chases him into his dreams. But he's never heard this particular inflection of it--high and needy, breathless.

He'd been half hard before and only half paying attention--but the one word has brought the blood rushing south and his full attention onto the screen. He stares--oh god--he needs to know. He wills the camera to pull back, needs a shot of the omega's face. He can't even bring himself to blink.

But the cameraman is slowly pulling out the anal beads now--they're huge and they glisten with Sher--no--the omega's lubrication. There's enough to slide down the shiny surface and drip onto the sheets. With every bead that pops out, the omega makes a low keening noise that goes straight to John's cock.

When the last bead is out, the omega is panting loudly enough to have his harsh breaths clearly audible. The camera finally pulls back and the cameraman goes around to the head of the bed and zooms in on the mess of curls pressed into the pillows.

"Come on pet," the cameraman says, "Lift your head and give us a look at your lovely blue eyes."

John stops breathing.

The omega doesn't move.

"Come on," the cameraman says sharply. The omega slowly lifts his head, tilts his face into the light and--

Sherlock.

It's a much younger Sherlock but it's definitely Sherlock.

His eyes are glassy, his mouth is parted and he doesn't even focus on the camera, looks somewhere off into the distance. John stares, his fist tight around the base of his cock. He can feel himself swelling even more--Jesus--fuck.

"Lovely," the cameraman says, lifting Sherlock's chin and running a thumb over his full lower lip. "I wish everyone knew how lovely you were when all you can do is beg."

Sherlock's lips move wordlessly.

"Speak up."

"Please." It's so quiet that it's barely audible.

"How many cocks would you like?" the cameraman asks, "One? Two?"

Sherlock shudders and turns his head away from the camera.

"Three?" The cameraman sounds pleased. "You insatiable slut."

John realizes belatedly through his shock that he's angry. Really fucking angry. He wants to find the cameraman and fucking tear his throat out for degrading Sherlock like this. But he can't help the way that his hips jerk up into his hand, the way that his own breathing is becoming ragged enough to match Sherlock's on screen.

The camera swings around and focuses on a door. Three men enter--two of them are alphas--John can tell by the brand of condom. John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and turns his face away--he shouldn't watch this, really really shouldn't--but he's too fucking far into this to turn back now.

One of the alphas climbs up onto the bed and repositions a pliant Sherlock with rough movements. He kneels and pulls Sherlock back, the blunt head of his dick pushing into the cleft of Sherlock's arse. The camera zooms in as the huge cock sinks all the way in. Sherlock moans with every inch that disappears.

_That should be my prick,_ John thinks, pressing the heel of his hand into his cock as he stares at the screen. He hates this, he shouldn't have found this at all and he can't stop fucking watching.

The camera pulls back and shows Sherlock on his elbows, forehead pressed into the mattress as he tries to buck against the grip that the alpha has on his hips. The beta pulls Sherlock's head up by the hair.

"Open up," the cameraman says, zooming in on his face. Sherlock still has that glazed look in his eyes but he's still defiant for a moment before slowly easing his jaw open. John's breathing seems to go shallow every time the camera settles on Sherlock's face and he's gone so slow now that he's barely touching himself out of fear for coming and missing a second of what's on screen. The beta pushes his cock into Sherlock's mouth.

"You set your own pace," the cameraman says, "Maybe if you're very good, we'll even let you come."

Sherlock seems to understand because he starts to move, lips sliding down the length of the medium sized cock. It takes him a few tries but he manages to deep throat the full length, kissing the dark nest of the beta's pubic hair--and is rewarded by a thrust from the alpha that jerks his entire body and makes his eyes go wide. His eyes flutter shut and he pulls back, mouthing at the tip of the cock like a tease before he does it again and again, low groans drawn out of him with every thrust. The alpha pounds into him until his back is arching and his cock drags against the sheets, leaking pre-come to mix in with his natural lubricant.

And then the beta is pulling his head back by the hair and keeping his head still as the alpha slows his movements. It takes Sherlock a moment to register what was going to happen and he shuts his eyes only a moment before the man is coming all over his face.

For a second, it looks like Sherlock might get a moment's reprieve, even with the alpha's cock still in his arse. His arms are shaking too hard to wipe the come from his face and he can't push his face into the sheets because the beta still has a grip on his head. The third man steps in with a hand at Sherlock's jaw.

"Come on," the second alpha says, "Let me breed your pretty mouth."

Sherlock's squirming in frustration, trying to push down on the alpha who holds Sherlock's hips so that only the head of his cock is inside Sherlock. But he opens his mouth again and the second alpha stuff his much larger cock between Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's jaw is stretched wide--as far as it'll go--as the alpha pushes in. His whimper is muffled.

The camera pans--one long line from the side of Sherlock's face, down the trembling curve of his torso, back arched, the jut of his cock against the pale sheets. to where the alpha slides in and out of him.

John can pick out the way that Sherlock's breathing is hitched through his nose, the half stuttered moans drawn out of him--everything. He can't watch any more of this--squeezes his eyes shut and runs a hand lightly down his erection. Jesus Christ, his knot has swelled. That didn't happen--not unless.

There's a slick sound. Sherlock gasps. John imagines that he's the one pressing Sherlock into the sheets, that he's pushing his knot into Sherlock's tight arse. Sherlock sobs something that sounds like a pleading sound. Christ. John's so tense and he can't breathe. A quiet cry, then a muffled whimper.

John thinks what it would be like to draw those sounds out of Sherlock himself. He wants--Jesus--he wants--Sher--

A low drawn out moan. John can almost feel how tense Sherlock would be, under his hands.

He comes so hard that he nearly whites out.

~

Later, he opens the video again, but only for a very specific frame: the three men as they enter the room. The video is grainy as fuck but John memorizes each of their faces as well as he can and promises himself that he will one day hunt down and kill every single one of them.

~

When he sees Sherlock in the morning, sleep-rumpled and glowering at an email on his laptop, John's brain helpfully provides him with an image of Sherlock's body drawn taut, caught between two cocks. John makes his morning shower a cold one and spends almost twenty minutes leaning against the cold tile, beating his mind into submission.

"I hope you haven't used up all the hot water," Sherlock says when John emerges in his bathrobe. He's got his feet propped up on John's chair and he's hidden behind a newspaper.

John mumbles something unintelligible (even to himself) back and goes back up the stairs to get dressed. He ignores the fact that he's half hard just from Sherlock's voice. Christ, he's not a teenager again.

~

He doesn't watch the video again.

~

He doesn't watch the video again.

~

When he does watch the video, he only watches the first part with the sound turned off. Just Sherlock trembling on the bed, spread open and inviting.

This is not helping his fucking ridiculous infatuation with his very unavailable flatmate.

Every time the camera swings toward the door and the other men step in, John feels a surge of rage so hot that he has to physically clasp his hands together tightly to stop himself from flinging the laptop across the room.

When he comes, he always has Sherlock in his head, Sherlock and all the noises he made.

~

He's going to delete the video from his laptop and block the site he found it on.

~

He dreams about draping himself along Sherlock's back, about sinking his teeth into Sherlock's neck. Christ, it'd be so perfect.

In the morning he deletes the video. He should have never found it.

~

Sherlock grabs John by the back of the elbow and physically steers him out of the precinct before Lestrade can rope them in to do any paperwork. The moment that they step outside, John shrugs off Sherlock's touch and goes to hail a taxi.

In the cab, Sherlock looks at him. He doesn't look away, out the window like he normally would do.

"What?" John asks.

Sherlock reaches out a hand and puts it on John's shoulder.

John looks at it, looks at Sherlock, then removes it and puts it back down on the seat.

"What are you doing?"

"An experiment," Sherlock murmurs and looks out the window again. John definitely doesn't look at the long line of his throat (tense, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow a cock too big for him) for too long. He stares out his window and tries to think the unsexiest thoughts he can come up with.

~

"The thing about porn," Sherlock says after dinner as he wipes down his violin, "Is that you can only use two senses to perceive what's going on. Especially in our society when scenting and tasting is such an integral part to the ritual--and there's no real substitute for touch, is there?" He whips his bow forward to point at John who's frozen in the doorway.

"Is this for a case?" John asks, feeling like he might throw up.

"No," Sherlock says, "This is about your internet history."

John leans against the doorframe. "Sherlock, I can explain."

"I suppose someone needed money and sold the video off," Sherlock says without much interest as he loosens his bow, "It's really not one of my better shots, though I suppose it is one of the more degrading performances and that certainly seems to sell. By the way, did I ever tell you that I participated in amateur pornography to pay for my expensive cocaine habit?"

"I," John starts, and then stops.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't try to look for the rest," Sherlock says, tucking the bow into its spot in the case.

"Yes," John says, "Yes, of course."

Sherlock snaps the case shut and smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

~

They're taking the elevator thirty-six floors up to the crime scene when Sherlock looks at John in the mirrored door and asks, "Did you like what you saw?"

John is thinking about the man who'd been killed--a banker shot in his office in the middle of the day and nobody had noticed until hours later--and blinks at Sherlock. "Sorry, what?"

"Did you like what you saw?" Sherlock repeats, "In the video?"

Oh Jesus are they really talking about that now? "Um," John says and looks up at the display showing what floor they're on--still on twenty-seven--dammit.

"No," John says, "I mean, I liked the parts with you in it--but the rest--it was--" He knows that he's just babbling now. "It was--" He swallows and finishes lamely, "It was too much."

Sherlock's expression is completely unreadable in the steel.

"I was really furious," John adds almost inaudibly.

The doors open. Sherlock doesn't look back at him as he strides forward.

~

John dreams of Sherlock's spine against his chest, dreams of the tiny hitched noises he made when the anal beads were pulled out of him. Some selfish part of him wishes that Sherlock's mouth had been free while that alpha (spike of fury, force it down) pounded into him so that John could collect the needy sounds from his mouth.

He doesn't look for any of the other videos. He made a promise to Sherlock.

~

When he thinks about it though, the thing that he would like to do most to Sherlock is to kiss him. To draw him close and to press his closed mouth to Sherlock's lips.

~

John doesn't know if he's just imagining it but he's fairly certain that Sherlock is touching him more often than usual. He puts a hand at the back of John's elbow when John already knows where they're going. He stands a little too close whenever they are introduced to witnesses and new Yard staff. He chooses to sit on the couch rather than the table or his own chair whenever they watch telly, probably because he knows he usually burrows his cold toes under John's thighs.

John keeps his hands folded in his lap the entire time, acutely aware of the temptation to grasp Sherlock's ankle and to slide his hand up to the back of his knee--watch the way that Sherlock swallowed--and see if he could get away with sliding his fingers any higher. But it's not like he's fucking going to, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the telly and only smiles a little when Sherlock starts yelling abuse.

~

"I think I want to spend my next heat with an alpha." Sherlock says while John makes them sandwiches for lunch. Sherlock doesn't even look up from the microscope as he speaks.

John thinks he's going to break the plate with his grip. He's proud of how calm his voice is. "Who?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says, "There are match sites for anonymous sex, aren't there? It's been a long time since I've had a real alpha cock. I've forgotten what it feels like."

John breathes out slowly through his nose. And then he slowly breathes in. And he says, "Sherlock."

"I'd get a hotel room, like always," Sherlock says. The fucker still hasn't looked up from his slide.

John says nothing. He sets the plate down and picks up the butter knife to put mustard on Sherlock's sandwich. Ten seconds later, he realizes that he's bent the butter knife out of shape.

When he looks back at Sherlock, Sherlock is staring straight at him.

He's nearly smirking. "What do you think, John?"

He thinks that he would very much love to follow Sherlock to that hotel room and rip the other alpha's head off. But what he says is, "Up to you. I mean, you don't really do commitments, do you?"

The smirk falters. Sherlock looks back down at his experiment. "Right."

~

Sherlock plays the violin. John's had an especially exhausting week so he lets his eyes drift shut to the low hum of the strings as he relaxes on the couch. His back will kill him later but it's incredibly comforting to sit and listen to Sherlock play, warm blanket across his lap from where Sherlock had dumped it there in favor of his violin.

Some time later, the violin stops. John's dozing, half awake and half asleep. He might have only dreamt the hand on his cheek, the whisper of a voice: "I wish you hadn't seen it."

~

"Right," John says as he comes down the stairs in the morning. Sherlock is staring at the coffee machine blearily with a mug in his hand.

"We should talk," John says.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. "No. We really shouldn't."

"I'm sorry I watched the video," John barrels on, "It doesn't change my opinion of you in the slightest and we should forget that it ever happened."

"Obviously," Sherlock says and John doesn't know what part of his statement Sherlock was addressing. "I thought that was what we were doing," Sherlock adds, "Why are you making this more painful than necessary?"

John gestures.

Sherlock stares.

"The last few weeks," John finally says. "I don't know. It seemed like you were trying to prove something."

Sherlock frowns and looks back at the coffee machine.

"Can we just go back to the way we were before?" John asks desperately, "You know, back before you told me that you wanted to fuck alphas."

Sherlock's head snaps back towards him and his voice is angry as he says, "Does it matter if I do?"

"No!" John shouts and then takes a few moments to calm himself, "It doesn't matter at all. I just don't want to hear about it. That's it."

Sherlock doesn't say anything else.

~

John wakes up in the morning and the flat reeks of omega heat. Fuck. He was going to kill Sherlock as soon as he somehow managed to quarantine the man away from him.

"Sherlock!" he shouts, trying to ignore how fantastic it smelled, trying to ignore the way that his cock has taken an intense interest. "Sherlock!" he yells again, stumbling out of bed and opening the door--

\--and comes face to face with Sherlock. A naked Sherlock. A naked Sherlock with an erection.

"Are you mad?" John shouts, stumbling back even as his body wants to reach forward.

"Why don't you get back in bed?" Sherlock practically purrs, stalking into the room. God the smell was fantastic and John's body was pumping out his own scent by now--and the mixture was even fucking better. John wanted to drown himself in it.

"I'm not--" John growls, fighting the urge to drag Sherlock onto the bed and pin him there, "--I can't have sex with you Sherlock."

Sherlock shoves him onto the bed. "Your body seems to think otherwise."

"I can't just be--some alpha," John chokes out, "I can't just have sex with you and forget about it Sherlock, I can't do that. Not with you."

Sherlock's movements slow, even though John can see the tremors in his hands, how badly his heat is affecting him. God he wants it, wants to take his clothes off, pull Sherlock down against him so they're flush against each other, skin to skin.

"I don't want some alpha," Sherlock breathes, "There hasn't been anyone else for a very long time." He leans in, his face dangerously close to John's, "I've been yours for a long time, John."

John catches him by the back of his neck and kisses him. Sherlock makes a broken nose against his lips, and opens his mouth, drawing John in. He's crawling on top of John, pushing him back against the headboard, breaking away only to pull the shirt over his head. He straddles John's hips, his arse rubbing against the cock straining to get out of John's pyjama bottoms and leaving behind wet imprints of lubrication.

John shudders and Sherlock gasps as John mouths along his neck, tongue pressing against his skin with little nips. Sherlock pulls John's bottoms and pants down enough only to free his cock and then he's sliding against it, lifting his hips up and coming back down so that the head of his cock nudged between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse.

"Just this," Sherlock breathes. He adjusts his aim and then he sinks down on John's massive cock in one sinuous movement. He lets out a shuddering breath through his mouth as John fills him.

John's hands clutch at Sherlock's hips and he shoves himself in even deeper. Sherlock's breath hitches, his head tilted back and eyes closed as he lets out a tiny whine. John moves his hands to Sherlock's shoulderblades and bites at his collarbones before leaving sucking bruises. Sherlock's thighs tremble as he pushes himself up and slides back down, a low whimper building in his throat.

John grasps Sherlock's hips and pulls Sherlock all the way off his cock. Sherlock whines at the loss--clutching at John's shoulders with a barely comprehensible, "Please."

Within moments, John has them flipped over so that he has the leverage to pound into Sherlock like he wants to. He slides back into Sherlock, thumbs in the small of his back as he hauls himself flush against Sherlock's backside. Sherlock back is arched, his hands fisted into the sheets.

"Move," he grinds out and John is happy to do so. Sherlock is so fucking tight around his cock--Christ he could stay like this forever. He builds a rhythm, sinking into that delicious friction and wet heat over and over until Sherlock is a writhing mess beneath his hands, clawing at the pillows and moaning.

He can feel his knot swelling, the sudden tension in Sherlock's body when he feels it too. John kisses his shoulder and runs his hands down Sherlock's sides until Sherlock relaxes again, until his breathing slows and he's moving his hips in little circles against John's knot even though he knows John can't pull out and that they're tied.

John can't stand it, he shudders and tips over the edge, letting the pleasure consume him. He comes inside Sherlock with his hands wrapped around Sherlock's hips tight enough to bruise.

"Fuck," Sherlock manages. John sits back, taking Sherlock with him, supporting Sherlock's weight against his chest. He wraps a hand around Sherlock's cock and squeezes before starting to stroke. Sherlock's arse tightens around him when he comes and John nearly comes again--just from the sensation. Sherlock paints his own chest in stripes.

John pushes his fingers through the mess against Sherlock's skin. He sucks at his own fingers, wanting to possess everything.

"I want to taste you," Sherlock breathes.

"Later," John promises.


End file.
